


The Grave

by LuxLox



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Historical, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-05-17 20:58:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14839049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxLox/pseuds/LuxLox
Summary: (Devon, England, 1953)Matthew was only ten years old when his elder brother, Alfred, was killed after returning home from WWI.For thirty-five years now, someone unknown has been laying flowers, writing letters and leaving poems on Alfred’s Grave.Matthew and this stranger begin to communicate via anonymous notes. The stories this stranger has to tell -about Alfred and he spending Alfred's last years in a war torn world- is anything but what Matthew was expecting.





	1. The Stranger with the Flowers

1953, Devon, England.

 

There was never any space. Hyacinths, posies, poppies and roses. More probably, rainbows of them. They melted into the soil, flooding colours upon colours, crowding up and over with sharp leaves slicing into soft petals and pollen. Darks and lights of the weaving stems making any discernible organisation of them entirely impossible to read. They were never cleared out either, the rotting ones. Just left to bleed their colour away with the quiet evenings, and then be swatted off by a graveyard breeze, creating an autumn of their own every second Sunday.  
That’s when Matthew would come to visit. He’d always bring his single, yellow tulip. He would always stick it straight down into the top of the pile, so it would spring out like a golden pinhead. He’d always tie the same note to it, with the same thing written on that note;

_Hello,_

_My Name is Matthew. This is my elder brothers grave. If you are the kind stranger who has been leaving all these flowers, poems and letters for the last thirty or so years, then I would very much like to meet with you.  
Thank you._

_Here is my address, please do not hesitate to call._

And that note would always be folded down neatly and held by the same, small envelope, that read the same, small words;

_To, The Stranger with the Flowers._

And it would always be left there, and it would never be opened. Every second Sunday, Matthew would come out of church through the small side door, making sure to wash his hands under a copper tap before he would then traipse over to the grave -each time letting the solemnity of a funeral march lead him on- to collect the compost of flowers, any letters or poems with the strangers slanted hand scrawled on them, and finally his unopened note. 

This Sunday had seemed no different. He had gotten out of church at his usual time, washed his hands with the same tap, numbed himself with a breath of the same stark and fresh forest air, and made his way over to the grave. That looked no different, either. The pile of flowers - reds now delicate browns and pinks now dull purples - sat hunched over like a floral guardian angel, watching the grave as it did every week, the feathers on its wings made out of paper letters and poems. Matthew collected those up first, dropping them into his coat pocket carefully, retrieving his tulip, intending to replace the old with the new. This was when he noticed it. The rip in the empty envelope.

It was a rush of emotions all at once, really. As bright and as lively as the blooming tulip that had now fallen to his feet. He plucked up the torn and paper thing, the dead tulip hanging from its neck like a dead witness. He had stared at it for a few fresh moments, before scrunching it up, still expecting to feel the bulk of the letter inside. Of course there was none, it was definitely empty. Completely, utterly, indisputably empty. And how entirely full that had made Matthew feel. 

His hands hadn’t known what to do. Nor his feet, his legs, his arms or his torso. Frozen in a warmth of excited delight. Then his body seemed to spur back into action, dropping the envelope and kicking back the tulip, he jumped up and round, legs twisting and starting him off. Racing back home. He passed everyone from church on the way back, all asking him where he was off to in such a hurry. He couldn’t answer, having only the breath in him to keep running, catching snippets of conversations.

“Must be an American thing.”

“Oh of course, did you watch the Olympics? They like to run. Really do.”

And it made him feel faster than ever. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was that fire he felt, the flame of knowing he was different - fighting against that striking whirlwind of emotions that was making him feel so very indifferent. Or maybe it was the fact that no matter how much they said it, he still wouldn’t ever be American… that was the thing really, between he and Alfred. Alfred could always just be Alfred, Matthew could never just be Matthew, could he? He was always ‘Alfred’s younger brother.’ Or ‘Alfred’s Canadian brother.” Or, which he quite found the worst of a bad bunch, “Alfred’s quiet little brother.” Alfred used to always be Alfred, and Matthew had to always be Alfred as well. 

For the first ten years of his life, that was all he ever was. Always “Alfred” - this or “Alfred” - that. Till his eleventh year, when Alfred was hit by a car, when Alfred had died that same day. After then, Alfred couldn’t be Alfred because it was as if Alfred had never even had a name to begin with. So now Matthew was rather nameless as well. They’d call him “That dead boys brother.” “That poor little boy that lost his brother.” “Quiet thing, used to have an older brother.” All he was, was a sweet thing to come out of a sour tragedy. Be that tragedy Alfred’s death, or Matthews life, how they saw him would never change. Not in London, anyway. So he had had to move, didn’t he? Far, far away. Somewhere deep into the countryside. That was how he had come across Devon.

The country side town proved perfect for both he and Alfred, the church yards were practically empty and waiting for the grieving to bury their dead. Bodies weren’t returned from war, see. It was something that unsettled Matthew, how many had experienced the tragedy he had, how all of them acted as though they hadn’t. It was as if The Great War had never happened, not to England’s countryside at least. Strangers around him went about their daily business - ducking in and out of market places and shops - with not even the wrinkles of death around them, only fresh fruit and kind words. Matthew was never sure whether or not he preferred it that way. But that was how it was, and Alfred was buried next to the back wall of a Devonshire church, surrounded by his parents, Matthew, and the post-war nonchalance of everything else. Two days after that, the Flowers started arriving.

At first, it was just that. Flowers. Matthew thought it was the villages silent way of showing their condolences. He left notes telling them how much he appreciated it, that was until the letters started turning up, poems following soon after. All in that same beautiful, black writing. They read words that made no sense. Angry snippets of literature, topsy-turvy grammar, a suffering voice coming through them all. Matthew would read them again and again, each time hoping his new grasp on the meaning of a word - or a sentence, or a bit of grammar - meant something. It was after 6 weeks of this that he stopped leaving thank you notes to the village, and instead wrote a note imploring for the flower giver to come and meet him. He would carry this on for the next 35 years, desperate to find anything out he could about his brother. 

So when Matthew returned home, throwing off his coat and shoes - tearing up a letter that had fluttered onto the floor from the letter box- he couldn’t breath. He read it, held it to his chest. Threw himself down at his writing desk, clicking on a green lamp that sat just ahead of him and planting the envelope right down in front of his typewriter. 

_“To, Alfred’s Brother: Matthew”_ it read, with Matthew’s address just underneath.

Matthew took a sucking breath in, lettin it build his chest up and then deflate weakly. This was it. After thirty five years, this better be it. He cracked open the stuck-down flap, opened it carefully. The folded piece of paper sat inside like a shrunken and feeble piece of skin. Actual skin that Matthew felt could patch up the wounds he had. He lifted it out, unfolded it, and spread it out flatly in front of him.

_“Hello, Matthew._

_I am so sorry it has taken me this long to write. I’ve been busy, unfortunately. Very busy. Thirty years worth of busy. But I’m not busy anymore, and I won’t be for the next coming weeks (after that though, I will be permanently busy, I’m afraid.) So I thought, well why not chat with that chap that keeps leaving me little cards on my best friend’s grave. It is you, I hope. This was the address on the note. Funny address it is, still not quite used to these odd little postcodes up here. Thirty five years and I still rather think there should be a couple numbers in there. Not really a postcode without numbers, is it? Still, they’re always slightly behind in the countryside. Whether that be with politics or post codes. Never seem to catch up, do they? You must understand this, you come from the city yourself. London? I only think that because that is of course where Alfred and I met. Would you mind if I told you about that? I should like to. I’ve not told anyone for almost forty years. That sort of time can take a toll on one._

_This letter is short, but should you wish to continue our written parlance, I shall prove quite the letter-y chatter box. Please do write back. If you leave any reply letters on the grave, they will be collected. I go there almost everyday, you see. I wish it could be absolutely everyday, I do, but -as I said- I am awfully busy._

_I look forward to your reply,_

_With Kind Regards,  
~The Stranger with The Flowers_

 

Matthew wasted no time in replying, slipping a sheet of letter paper into his typewriter, he began to tap away at his keys noisily.

_“Dear Stranger,_

_I am so excited to”_

No, that wouldn’t do.

_“Dear Stranger,”_

No, no he must ask his name.

_Dear Alfred’s friend,_

_I was ecstatic to receive your letter. I am very keen to keep our exchange going. I would love to learn more about my brother, and I’d love to hear any stories and anecdotes you may have about him._

_I hope all is well with you._

_In your next letter, would you kindly tell me your name? I don’t want to keep thinking of you as stranger, not if we have my brother in common. He had the ability to bring any two people together. I’ve always said, if he had lived that long, that he would have solved WWII just by having a coffee and a chat with Winston and Adolf himself._

_Will be awaiting your next letter with anticipation,_

_From your soon to be friend, Matthew._

“That’ll have to do.” 

This was the first time Matthew had visited the grave without a heavy feeling in his stomach and weights on his feet. The second time would be two days later, when he went to check for a reply letter. 

It was there, as true as the stranger said it would be. He’d waited till he got home and comfortable - cup of coffee in hand - to read the thing. It felt like a bandage in his hand as he unfurled it from his enveloped confines. There it was. That same, curled writing. There were two more sheets inside the envelope, writing glancing through transparent and illegible, as though inundated in clear water. 

_Dear Matthew,_

The first sheet read.

_I am glad to hear my reply brought you joy. I am sorry I didn’t write my name first off, I was plagued by a silly 35 year bound of wanting to remain in privacy. I see now it was awfully stupid of me._

_You may notice there are more pieces of paper this time round, I’m not sure yet how many there will be, but hopefully it shouldn’t prove too daunting. Do tell me if it is. Pray, do._

_Anyway, I won’t make this any longer than it has to be. I’ll just get on with it, shall I?_

_My name is Arthur, your brother and I were very intimate friends. We worked together as milkmen (more boys) from 1914 till 1916, he was as you will know, 15 years old at the time of our meeting, and I a year older than he. I don’t think I’ll go on from that. Not presently. I shall of course tell you beyond 1916, but I do believe that is a letter for another time._

_For now, I think I shall start from when we first exchanged names._

_The year is 1914, the city is London and the day is ripe and waiting for the delivery of milk._


	2. Mouse Square

_“You know, now I begin writing this, I’m suddenly reminded that I do know who I’m writing it to. Alfred spoke of you, many a time and never in much great detail. Mentioned, is a good word for it. And being often mentioned usually means that one is at the foremost thoughts of the one doing the mentioning. And those one is being mentioned to. I have no doubt, and this is secured by events that I will tell later, that you were the most important person in his life. And Alfred had very few of those. In fact, my dear boy, you are the beginning and end of why I am putting this letter together. And you shall be in every roof-topped aspect in between, I am sure._

_So, saying that. Shall we get on with where you begin?_

_You first start off as the reason we saved a life. We were out delivering milk, I believe it would have been in the Piccadilly area.”_

“You beast! You awful, rotten, aweful fat beast! Rotten old beastly thing.”

“Are you describing a dead body, or that horse there?”

“Oh, do quiet down Alfred. Quiet down, because I’ve had enough of when you aren’t quiet. Bloody… rotten…”

“You’re pulling on her reigns too hard. That’s why she’s like that.”

“How would you know?” 

Alfred, with his hands in his dungaree pockets and eyes hidden by his tartan cap, shrugged. And then with a solid confidence that vacuumed his entire body and had become his usual gait, said “I just do.” Then he laughed, and sat himself back down between the clinking milk bottles, placing a brown cigarette between his lips and letting it sit dormant whilst he watched on.

Arthur scoffed, sliding backwards in the mud with the forward force of the juddering horse, and feeling almost as though he had been scammed. He had a cheek, that boy. A cheek that Arthur appreciated and didn’t both in their oxymoronic entirety. What it gave in amusement, it took away in annoyance, and a pestering nonchalance for working together. 

Arthur could tell from Alfred’s pressed clothes, black shoes, decorated pocket watch and overseas accent that he was far from poor (and so, far from Arthur in that respect.) and his working attitude mirrored that. When he pulled out a cigarette, he no longer cared. Arthur had learnt that about him. And he had hated him for it, in that jealous way we all hate people who are not struggling for the same things that we are. And so, they were not friends. And it would remain that way for hours to come.

“Oh, you do, do you? Well I’m not even pulling on her. So there. How could you know? How could you—“

“I can read horses.”

“You won’t even help me with her. So shut up and come and help me, will you?”

“Said, I can read horses. Always have been able to. I just know. And I know you don’t want no help with her neither.”

Arthur stamped his foot in frustration, which sent him off balance and falling a few feet more backwards. “And how would you know that?”

“‘Cause I can read the English too. And you don’t never want help from Americans. Not never, not even when you ask for it.”

“That’s… that’s utterly silly. Silly, silly, silly. Why don’t you give me a hand here, I’ve given you enough reason to. Isn’t that what you Americans like? Reasons? Well I’ve given you one. Now I have. Come on.”

“You don’t want it, really.”

“Oh but—“ The carriage shivered, and Arthur took some leadership in the tug and war battle that was now happening. The horses black neck bent round like a piece of empty tyre rubber, and it’s panicked eye caught the morning light. She wasn’t going to stay with all four hooves on the ground for much longer. “I do. I really bloody do. And right now would be a jolly good time.”

“Well,” Alfred heaved himself up, both elbows unbending from his knees, stirring the cigarette around in his mouth in tune to the deflation of his sigh. “If you really, really do. I guess I’ll give it a go.”

“Hurry up.”

“No need. That’ll scare her.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. We’re past that point, lad.”

“Shhhhh-“

“Don’t you-“

“Shhhh, girl. It’s alright.”

Arthur, feeling an unspoken order being said, stepped back from the horse, giving over the reigns to Alfred. He held them steady, as though they were whip ends, and put the horses bared cheek to his hand. Stroking it. 

“I’m knackered.” Arthur stated, not letting the himself believe he was stepping back in uselessness. “Utterly knackered.”

“You see, uhm— woah, woah there lady. Okay, so, you see her ears? Laid back there? That’s distress. Means she needs soothing. You were just… well, whatever fighting you were doing was definitely not soothing.”

“I was fighting because she was—“

“And her mouth? Keeps chewing, see it, don’t ya? That means you gotta stop pulling, or she’s just gonna keep pulling back because you’re hurting her. Okay?”

“I had to. She’s a beast.”

“These beasts understand you, Art. You just gotta treat ‘em like they do. She don’t look so beastly now, does she?”

And she didn’t. Her head was bowed, and had lost its former elasticity. Alfred had his whole arm slung over her neck now, his hand stroking her cheek, his other bridged over her nose. He almost looked like he was about to start lugging her and the cart forward himself. But, as soon as that odd thought had passed Arthur’s mind, it was contradicted by the reigns being slung back into his hand, and Alfred beginning to duck under the horses neck as though it were a low doorway. 

“Ready?”

“Well, why aren’t you driving her? What if she gets frightening again?”

Alfred’s head popped up on the other side, and he slung a smile. “You don’t think you can do it?”

“Of course I _can_ do it. I just…”

“Well, If that’s how you feel, I don’t mind—“

“That’s not how I feel. Not at all. Go on, then. Go and jump in the back with the bottles. I’ve got hand of her.”

“Hm. Well, if you say so.”

“I do.”

_“He would do that a lot. Prove me to be stupid. But I was never stupid enough to not realise and not care about it. He would have that way with people. Make them feel stupid, but better than him. All, somehow, at the same time. And so when I had realised that I was stupid (half an hour into the deliveries.) I took it upon myself to take charge of everything from there on out. And, so, when we rode up to the first house after my realisation, I hopped off from the riders shelf and gave Alfred a speaking to. It was this moment that reminded me we were just two boys the same age._

“Do you know how I came here?” Alfred asked, with a rehearsed tone that seemed as though he were delivering the statement to the rest of bustling London. They swapped positions, and Alfred slid onto the riders shelf with a full-hearted clumsiness.

“By horse and cart. I’ve been with you this whole bloody time.”

“What?” He was thrown off his course of thinking, and the air of grandeur dissipated with each bump of his seat. “Uhm— no. No. I mean, to England. Do you know? Have I said?”

“Oh. No, don’t think so.”

“Well, I ought to. It’s interesting.”

“Hm.”

“It’s a ship.”

“I supposed it would be.”

“A famous one.”

“S’posed it’d be.”

“I’ll tell you it’s name, and then you’ll stop being so damn impertinent, in fact, you may even have a little resp—“

“Oh— left here! Quickly!”

The horse took a sharp turn upon Arthur’s instruction, which, as impossible as it was, Arthur took as a sign of his own importance. Alfred on the other hand, was slid over with his wrist tangled into the end of the reigns to tie him in place. Luckily, on this grotty backroad, no one was out to see him other than the skeletal beggars and flock of street children.

Arthur hated this street, and having rode down it many a time alone, was desensitised to it’s instant flickering aura of danger that it imposed. The houses were each skinny and tall and like rusted barbed wire they seemed to coil far and long upon the uneven street. Each house possed a slim wooden door, painted black so that it resembled shadow, that would lead straight out onto the cobbled road, with nothing but an inch of pavement, a stretch of drain and an air of climaxious poverty to separate the housed from the unhoused. More of this sickness was spread down past the corners of the terraced houses, and circled round so that unless one was perfectly aware that they must get away as soon as they could, they would be stuck wandering in vain, just long enough for their belongings to be stolen and their dignity ravished at by children that could hardly weigh (in skin and bone) all the syllables in their collective name. 

“ _It’s called Mouse Square. And it would change our lives. I’ve no idea if it’s still there. I do hope not. I hope they’ve flattened it. Should have by now. But, for the sake of this story, will shall imagine it back to life. In all it’s rancid, misfortune-starting glory._

_Just at the corner of the last street of the square, there was a house much smaller than the rest - for it was not tenement and belonged to only a single family - It was tucked away and I had barely spent it more than a half-penny in attention (other than of course handing over the milk. You couldn’t leave it on the doorstep here, for the obvious reasons. Not that I blame the poor things.) Today - or rather the day that was today all those years ago - my nonchalance would forever change. Completely. I’m a man that likes words, as you may have already figured out from the poems, but I have none to describe the immense impact of this interaction. So, I suppose I shall recount them to you, and you can make of them what you will. It was the last house we got to, and it was my turn to deliver the milk.”_

“No one in.”

“”No one? But I saw… yeah! I saw someone move in the window. That one, there. Right there.”

“Can’t have done. I knocked and no one answered.”

“Well, then you knock more.”

“It doesn’t matter that much.”

“Yes it does! It’s their… it’s their milk.” His voice grew quiet, but it was like the energy was transferred straight from the confidence in his logic, right into his limbs, and he leaped up with such a ferocity that the milk bottle he was holding almost went slinging out from his grasp. “C’mon. Last one. Let’s just get it in there.”

Arthur watched him for a second, then for another. How he exhumed the embodiment of energy, happiness, a blind joviality that Arthur had lost long ago. Almost as if all his nerve endings were continually re-igniting and sparking off, and his body seemed to have a sleek, runners-like muscular build that further cemented the notion of his leaping vigour. And so, Arthur watched him, till he looked away again, a funny feeling behind his eyes and in his stomach.

“Door was open, I suppose… we could just…” 

“Great Idea, Arthur! Great one.”

And then Alfred had disappeared with the last of the milk, and would come to be the last of himself, into the small house at the corner edge of Mouse Square. It was at least another twenty minutes till Arthur decided the boy was most likely caught and tied up somewhere and that he should probably follow in. 

Once you made it past the overgrown grass and wild bushes, you came to the little red doorway (now left a jar) and past that door, was a small hallway that is not worth describing in its own bleak and cut up sort of way. Then off in the distance, but not far away, is the rectangular hint of a kitchen, with some sort of copper sink peeking out from the brown shadows. Arthur followed this, and when close enough, he could hear Alfred’s distinct voice, and then between it like a quieter echoe, was another voice. A female voice.

“Alfred…?”

And there was Alfred, but he was not alone. Right behind him was a new face, slim, sharp and young. Her hair was thin and white, trussed up Into two tails either side of her head, so that they fell stiffly down like the damp bristles of a paintbrush. Her eyes, too, seemed stiff, but not unkindly. Only that they had seemed to freeze up and grey over with their own lifelessness. She had a face that wasn’t made for smiling, and had become so hardened over the years that her now curling lips seemed to cut into the rounds of her cheeks like sharp points.

“S’me, Arthur. Sorry I’ve been so long, I’ve been speaking to, uh, Natalya here. She’s uh… well, this is Arthur. He’s my friend. He helps me out with this work here.”

“Hello, Arthur.” Her voice was fragile and with a slight Eastern European accent, and only grew in its fragility and accent as Arthur stared hard at her. He hadn’t noticed how far back her eyes were, and how her eyebrows were plucked out and drawn back in in one swift line, but that their original curvature was beginning to sprout back, so that the frame of her face sat with a blur. In fact, apart from her bones and her canines, nothing was sharp about her. She looked the picture of purity, innocence, kindness.

Arthur frowned. “Hello…”

“Would you like to see Mouse, too?” She asked, her thin lipped smile widening.

“Uhm—“

“It’s her dog.” Alfred clarified. “A greyhound.”

She nodded along vigorously, as though Alfred was spouting out something political that she agreed with. 

“He’s right. Mouse is my dog, I’ll get her, shall I?” 

“I… uhm…”

“She’ll be in the shed. Hope he hasn’t chained her up again… if he has… I hate it when he does that. Do you know why? Why? Because then she gets no exercise. She’s a greyhound, she needs her exercise. I know she’s meant to be skinny but...Oh but— oh, but that’s why it’ll be good when I take her out with you. She get some air then.”

“Sure will.”

“Uhm— Alfred? What does she—“

“Go and get Mouse, Natalya. I got to speak to Arthur real quick.”

“Oh, Alright! I won’t be long. I bet she’ll be all chained up anyway. All-l-l-l chained up. Stupid…” and she was away, and Arthur had grabbed Alfred’s arm out of a sudden fit of anger, and pulled him off to the side of the small kitchen. Suddenly, he felt silly, and didn’t know what to say. So he just went with what was bursting from his gut.

“What the bloody hell, Alfred? What's she rattling on about coming out with us?”

“Hey— Hey, firstly. Careful on my arm, I’m not as tough as I look. Secondly, I think we need to rescue her.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, and he felt that disconnected feeling of a dream beginning to numbingly pack around him. This was stupid. “You’re insane. You’re saying terribly queer things.”

“I’m not— I know I sound it. But you need to listen to me, okay? We need to rescue her. I think she might be—“

“Poppycock.”

“—listen! I think she might be getting hurt here. Okay? And we need to help her.” 

Now it was Alfred’s arm that was tight on Arthur’s, and he squeezed it, offering reassurance for something Arthur wasn’t sure he wanted to be reassured about. There was something in the shake of his eyes, his mouth and his shoulders, that told Arthur this was something more than just silly. But he wasn’t quite sure why.

“And how would you know?”

“How would I know?”

“Yes. How would you know she’s being hurt.”

“Because… how would I know… I would know, because it’s obvious!”

Arthur guffawed. “I’m leaving. How can you know what’s obvious. You wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“Wait! I know what to look for. I just… Arthur… you’ll have to trust me. I know we don’t know each other very well… but we will. We will, and you’ll learn I can be trusted. I’ll promise.”

“Oh, well that sorts all that out then.”

“Phew.”

“I don’t mean that seriously. I think you’re being silly, and you’re over reacting… and— and… and how _would_ you know what to look for?”

He looked over his shoulder, out the window and into the garden that Natalya had just exited into. Then a panic replaced the previous wet calm that had come before, and he whipped around to look at Arthur again.

“She’s almost back. Please! I just… because I just do.”

“Why?”

“I promise?”

“But How and why?”

“Ugh, Arthur!”

“Why?!”

“Because my little brother— he… because my little brother. Okay? Please. I’ll tell you another time, but please just help me here. Help her. Just trust me.”

_“And So, well, I did. I trusted him. It feels so familiar to say that now, but back then, It was the oddest feeling to me. I didn’t trust people. I just didn’t. But with Alfred, I think something in me decided it was time to trust in something. And if it were to be the implores of a boy I barely knew, begging me to risk my livelyhood and save a strange little girls life? Then, so be it. If one is going to do something for the first time, one might as well not do it in halves. That’s what I say. It was something of my brothers. My eldest one, I had three all-in-all. All dead now, of course. But I think I was always closest to my eldest one. I’ll tell you something of him further on. But for now, I wish to tell you of one of the best and (now looking back on it) worst moments I ever spent with your brother._

_It was the morning next, and we were on our way to pick up Natalya. Alfred had this bright idea of spending the afternoon at a lakeside to do some swimming see…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aAAaahh thank yous so much for your patience, I've been on holiday in America for a while (love your guyses ice cream, keep up the good work) and I've also been sorting out some academic-y stuff with school starting up soon n'all, so thanks for baring with me <3  
> And as always, Thanks for reading, and thanks literally so much for taking the time to leave a review - they always brighten my week :")
> 
> Also, a little PS, this fic's going to get a little confusing in sort of it's every aspect lmao, so if you're left confused at anything, please leave a question in the review section, I'll answer them all as well as I can c: (If I even know the answer myself, that is c":)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading ahhh, I'm so nervous about publishing this :")  
> I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, it's a little different from what I usually like to do (maybe a little slower in pace, but things'll get nice and chilly peppered from here on out c;)  
> I can't really think of anything else to say, other than thank you so much for clickin' and readin', and if you decide to leave a review - then an endless thank you for that :") 
> 
> See ya!
> 
> -Lux


End file.
